


is that a compromise?

by lucifer



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Sex, F/M, Female V (Cyberpunk 2077), Other, POV Second Person, PWP i guess but there is a plot, so follow your self insert dreams babes, takes place during chippin in, technically gender neutral v with pussy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29672169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifer/pseuds/lucifer
Summary: “Fuck, V,” he says, finally annoyed, and puts the metal hand on the mouth of the bottle with a clank, forcefully lowering it away from your face. “This is so fuckin’ stupid. The first time I see you getting drunk on your own and it’s just to be a miserable piece of shit. So you’re pissed outta your mind and you wanna jack it. Sorry I have to be there. This crisis can’t be happening in front of a joy toy? A doll, even? Can’t be back at the fucking bar talking shop with the hot bartender?”
Relationships: Johnny Silverhand/Female V, Johnny Silverhand/V
Comments: 2
Kudos: 54





	is that a compromise?

**Author's Note:**

> just some straight up, pure, uncut horny time.

Everything in your life can neatly be cut into to eras: Before Johnny and After Johnny. You didn’t smoke or drink this much Before Johnny. Before Johnny, the old V wouldn’t have hesitated to hit up Panam and invite her out to do some mutual bitching over beers. Before Johnny, you’d only take cigarettes at your most shitfaced. Your habits are changing, but you can blame it on the stress, right? You don’t drink as much as he did—insofar as what you’ve seen, at least. There was a point when your mind was quieter, not echoing with the monotone of a dead man’s voice, the guy who parts of you slowly slip into.

Basically, you’ve been doing nothing but running and fighting and eating shit for days, all culminating in the nightmare that was last night. You need a hard reset. 

Which is why you’re puking in the corner of a stairwell right now. 

“Don’t you think you’re going a bit overboard? Should probably just head home.” Johnny flickers into existence beside where you’re sitting, next to empty bottles and scattered garbage, though it’s a bit more like you’re collapsed there, spitting bile onto the dirty concrete. The blockers stopped working, then. This was supposed to be a night for you solo.

It’s only been a day since you woke up in a shitty hotel room with Rogue standing over you and flashes of Johnny’s wild night out running through your head, overwhelmed by the sickening exhaustion of your body being wrung out in ways you never agreed to. The minute you felt half well enough and the relic stopped screaming, you slammed some blockers and rode straight back to the Afterlife to pound the feeling out with more alcohol. 

It had you asking Claire for as many of Jackie’s drinks as she could make. Hell, you even had a few Silverhands for the sick irony of it, remembering how last time, Johnny had shook his head, saying, “Great, my legacy's overpriced tequila.” 

So you want your own drunken bender, your own shitfaced parade to erase Johnny’s and make you feel like you own your body again. Plus, conversation with someone, literally _anyone_ else but him. You wanna call Judy. You wanna call Panam even if it means making a drunken drive out of town. Hell, you’d even call River. But you think about Panam’s legs in your lap and your stomach twists threateningly again. 

“Fuck you, Johnny,” you reply, swallowing down a dry heave in a half groan. You spit again, clearing your mouth. You'll need another drink to get the acid out. 

“Sorry for being concerned,” Johnny says sourly, eyes unreadable behind the glasses as usual. If he’s drunk too, he’s surprisingly calm, not egging you to party harder tonight. His low voice grinds on, unimpressed. “But even I wouldn’t do two nights of this shit in a row right before a job. Especially not alone.” 

“Are you kidding me?” you snap, bitterly. “I’m not alone, ever. I’ve got the world’s most annoying fly in aviators buzzin’ 'round my head. Getting crossed on God knows what is basically your M.O., but I'm not allowed to do it too? Fuck you.” 

“Let’s just say I haven’t missed that stuff as much as I thought I would. Hits different in your shitty little body. Also don’t like seeing you spiral when we still got work to do. You’re all weird and off your game right now, it’s makin' me antsy. What are you gonna do if something happens—” 

“Dunno,” you cut off the incoming lecture before it gets out of hand, resting your head on your knees, reaching into a pocket and touching the pills waiting there. Both kinds. “Would be kinda funny to just let you deal with it. Y’know, _real_ problems.” 

He scoffs. “Thought you didn’t want to give me control,” he says. “Now you’re suddenly cool with it to avoid your own shit. Great, just what we need. You givin’ up?” 

“Can I? Could use the vacation.” There is, of course, no way in hell you’re giving Johnny control of jack shit ever again. But you’re drunk and entertaining the idea to fuck with him is just fine. 

Your hands are pulling out the stupid cigarette pack he convinced you to buy last week, when Johnny, ever full of surprises, shoves you with one elbow, nearly toppling you sideways on the steps. 

“What the fuck?!” you snap, and reactively shove him back with both hands, which he mostly shrugs off, but the contact makes you freeze to stare at your palms and him with a look of vague betrayal. “Uh? Are we supposed to be able to touch each other while I’m on the blockers?” 

“Don’t look at me. I’m surprised too. Didn’t start feelin’ conscious again until you started drinking. They do say ‘don’t take with alcohol’ on the label in big red warning letters. You’re—we’re probably so far gone they’ve stopped working.” Johnny drops his digital cigarette and stomps on it. So he _is_ drunk. “C’mon, did you think I could punch your lights out but it was one way? Should’ve gotten a few more hits in, knock some sense into you.” 

“Sure, might as well kill a few more of my braincells while you’re at it in there.” 

Johnny groans, annoyed. “I already told you we’ll fix this. Besides, if that’s not sinking in, your skull’s probably thick enough to take a few more hits. You should be able to at least get the gist of this since we’re sharing the same brain. Said I’d do you no wrong and all that, remember?” 

“It doesn’t make us telepathic,” you say through gritted teeth. 

“Technically we are or you’d be shouting out loud to yourself more often than not. Which you already slip up and fuckin’ do enough, look like a crazy person.” 

You want to yell at him about how he’s the crazy, but he just keeps going. 

“Besides, don’t need telepathy to tell: you just wanna feel sorry for yourself. It’s bumming me out. Shit, if I were this far gone we’d have at least one hand up a skirt and three more skirts lined up. But we’re out here.” He kicks a can with disgust. “With the garbage. You ever think it’s weird how I always end up next to the garbage with you?” 

“I don’t, actually,” you grumble, but he just talks over you, apparently trying to make up for the last few hours of silence you forced onto him via the drugs. 

“Hell, they even dumped us in a dump when this whole thing started. Really set the tone.” He turns a new cigarette over in his hands. You’re beginning to realize the drinks really got to Johnny in his own, stupid way—the way he just keeps fucking _talking_ , full of pent up energy. “Whole town’s a dump, though. Liked it better when we were inside the bar. Least you were getting along with that bartender. Who’s fuckin’ stacked, by the way.” 

You press your palms into your eyes as he complains, feeling the Kiroshis buzz unpleasantly and flash a warning alert while the pressure swirls pixelated patterns across the inside of your eyelids. When he finally stops you let go to glower at him, vision taking a split second to recalibrate and focus. 

“Johnny, sometimes I just wanna be alone. And you robbed me of that. So if I wanna feel sorry for myself? That’s my business. Don’t always need your fuckin’ input—”

Johnny scowls. “V—“

“Please!” you say, throwing your hands out, palms upwards, exasperated. Your head is hanging as you stare between your legs at the dirty steps. “I’m just asking you—no, I’ll even fucking beg for it at this point. Can you please, pretty please, just shut the fuck up and let me wallow? Can I have this one goddamn thing?” 

Johnny goes silent but you can practically hear his petulance. Out of the corner of your eye you see his arm move to put a new cigarette to his lips, then a lighter clicks and you hear him exhale. You can almost feel his eyes on you as you stare at your boots between your knees. But then you hear the digital buzz of his stage exit enter your ears, and when you lift your head, he’s gone. 

Honestly, Johnny was right about one thing. At this point? You would just rather be at home. So you go back inside to be enveloped by the music and close your tab with Claire. 

“Huh. Can’t believe you’re back here again so soon. Thought you were Johnny again for a second.” Rogue actually leaves her booth and sidles up to you at the bar while you order one last drink—Johnny, surprisingly true to your request, is nowhere in sight. 

“Well, y’know,” you say, twisting to lean against the counter as charmingly as possible, pleased to be alone for once. Out of the corner of your eye you can see Claire laughing at you, covering her mouth. “He got to have his fun, now I get to undo it in the same way.” 

“Right,” Rogue says, unconvinced and unimpressed. “You look like shit still. Works out 'cause I needed the day to track down Smasher. You should consider actually taking a break, V.” 

“Thanks for worrying about me, Rogue. I’ll be fine.”

Rogue crosses her arms over her chest. “Well, there’s no damn point in doing this job if you’re just going to be dead weight. But also take care of yourself.” She pats you on one shoulder, squeezes it firmly on the last pat, and her palm stays there just long enough for you to feel warmed by it. She picks up her drink, walks back to her booth, and you think, hazy, that she and Johnny really are alike in some ways. Rogue is just slightly nicer. 

"Wow, V," Claire says, private amusement lighting up her voice in a way that curls around you pleasantly. “Glad you’re still on Rogue’s good side after whatever you two disappeared to do yesterday. Looked a little intense there.” 

You groan. “Gonna be honest with you Claire, I don’t remember it.” She just laughs again. 

“I’ll be surprised if you remember tonight, either.” 

“This is nothing,” you say, sighing and knocking one last stupid Silverhand back. 

  
On the trek home, only getting drunker as the last of the tequila kicks in, you start to dial Judy’s number on the holo. But you chicken out on the first ring and hang up the line. 

Doesn’t feel right to hit her up like this. One, you’re beyond shitfaced in a way that is not attractive in the least. Two, Judy already has enough to worry about, what with some whole plan she’s concocting for Clouds. Three, the silverhanded elephant in the room of your skull. Everything you do now, every conversation and relationship you have is something he gets to watch. And you hate it. There isn’t a decision you make that Johnny doesn’t comment on, haranguing you into doing what he'd do. And you’re gonna hear it until it kills you. Much faster, you think, than you’re gonna really be able to enjoy even having these new friends. Go figure. 

It might as well all be past tense, just like what you’ve seen of him. You’re already toast, you’re in the last days of your life and you can’t even reach out to your chooms without feeling like you’ve brought a voyeur. 

Not that it doesn’t work both ways, you’re not likely to forget Alt. Johnny was surprisingly blasé about his own love life getting put on blast like that. You do have to admire his unwavering commitment to tasks at hand, even if it meant you discovering in first person how fucking _terrible_ he is with relationships. Especially when it’s in contrast to the whole come-fuck-me thing. But you learned a lesson from it. There’s no way in hell _you’re_ gonna expose yourself like that, not with people you actually care about, at least. 

“Johnny,” you say into the cooling night air. “You can come out now.” 

He’s there in an instant, striding ahead and ignoring you like he’s annoyed you stopped trudging home to use your brain. You follow and keep just behind him, shoving hands deep in your jacket’s vinyl pockets. 

“What, lonely enough now to talk to me?” he jibes. 

“No one here for you to harass me about, is there? Didn’t think you’d actually give me some alone time, so thanks.” 

Johnny’s form flickers as he looks back at you over his shoulder, eyes already alight with something you don’t like. 

“Well, I almost always would rather be out here walking 'round instead of peekin' out from behind your drunk optics. But it’s better than when you take those fuckin’ pills. And since you were willing to beg for it, how could I say no?” 

“Ugh,” you say. “Nevermind. Fuck off.”

He just chuckles to himself, lifting a new cigarette to his lips. You’re craving one too, and you can’t tell if it’s solely from Johnny telegraphing the desire or because you didn’t get to have one earlier and you’re definitely still drunk enough to want it. Normally you’d be bumming one off of Judy at this point in the night while she still claims to have quit. Yet she always manages to procure a pack by the time you’re finished making over the top promises to help tinker with her tech—innuendo included. A part of you aches, imagining it. 

“Hey, Johnny,” you say thoughtfully. “D’you ever miss them?”

“Miss who?” 

“Your… friends? Rogue, Alt, Kerry? Your bandmates. Anyone y’knew from fifty years ago.” 

He scoffs and keeps walking. “I miss fucking,” he says. 

At least you’re not the only lonely one. 

Back in the apartment, you start kicking off your boots and clothes and tossing them around without a care for where they land. The bar was not where the party was at. Now you're ready to get comfortable. Being home is rejuvenating, safe, with a shower for you to erase the stench of sweat and stairwell and wash away the puke taste. 

Johnny, unimpressed, watches as you drop your pants, step out with one foot, and kick them across the room with the other before you turn the radio to Morrow Rock and go blast the hot water. 

"Now you're in a good mood?” he complains, hip on the bathroom doorway.

"Can you stop following me around while I'm naked? Jesus,” you complain right back, testing the temperature. 

“What difference does it make? I’ve watched you take a shit every day for the last—“

“Johnny,” you interrupt, and step over to the doorframe, hanging on it opposite him, “Shut up.” You punctuate this by sliding the door shut. 

Upon finishing you emerge in a cloud of steam, a towel draped around your neck, human brain tumor nowhere to be seen. Mike is wrapping up a story behind some anarchist conspiracy while you dig around in the closet for a tank top and underwear, and then Black Dog starts playing. You start humming along, and Johnny, clearly ignoring your earlier complaint, doesn’t even wait for you to get dressed before reappearing somewhere, static running through your ears. You’re rifling through a mountain of clothes and armor that you can’t tell is dirty or clean, drunkenness making the task a hundred times more difficult. Nibbles immediately dives under a pile and playfully grabs at every stray article of clothing you toss to the ground. Meanwhile, Johnny finally decides on a topic to bug you about. 

“Guess it’s good to know in your body, my music career won’t be entirely down the drain.” 

You sniff a pair of shorts and make an ugly face, only half-listening. “Whoa, that a compliment?” 

Johnny shrugs. “You can hit a note, at least. Jury’s out about the screaming, but whatever. Listen to this station all day and still don’t know any lyrics, or are you a terminal hummer?” 

You give up and start actually sorting your clothes into new piles on the floor, idly singing along as a minimal response. 

“Wow, two lines. And they’re the hook. Impressive.”

“Haven’t you heard?” you snark, mocking, “I’m Samurai’s number one fan.” 

“Sure,” he says, unfazed. “Any one of our old groupies is more deserving of that title than you, ‘n some of them couldn’t even name a single song by Samurai. Definitely were busy doing too much neoMDMA.” 

You scoff, instinct to be competitive despite yourself. “Don’t see any of them with your chip in their brains, that has to count for something.” 

“In your situation? A couple of them would have just given me their bodies immediately.” The corner of Johnny’s lips go up. “Plus I’ve fucked most of Samurai’s self-proclaimed number one fans. Intimately aware of how dedicated they are.” 

You grimace, remembering the sensation of touching women with his hands all too well, and finally dig out a tank and some clean briefs from under a pile of multicolored pozer jackets. 

“What about that guy at the market who’s still hocking your merch? Intimately acquainted with him?” 

“That guy? Guess you could say he’s still sucking my dick but in a different way.” 

You snort a laugh, then shake your head. “Guess I can concede that the real fans are whoever came back for seconds despite your sloppy, lazy bedroom manners.” 

“The fuck? I was drowning in pussy and I’m hearing this from the gonk that can’t even work up the courage to send the Nomad girl a text?” 

You’re in the middle of putting on the underwear when you flinch visibly, face flushing painfully hot—it was already hot enough from the shower. “I’m—“

Johnny cuts you off, because of course he does, his cock’s pride needs defending. “Let’s get it straight, even if I fucked groupies it doesn’t mean they didn’t get to enjoy themselves.” 

“Sure, Johnny,” you roll your eyes, hurrying to pull on the muscle tank, because this conversation cannot continue while you’re still naked. “They had it all with you. Getting fucked by _the_ rockerboy, getting fucked like they’re scrollin' a hot BD, and most importantly: you made sure it looked good for the invisible camera that’s your ego. I saw it.” 

“Apologies if you aren’t impressed by my dick, V, but a lot of other people were. Wonder where some of those girls are now. Maybe we should track them down, see if there’s still a spark.” 

You groan and throw yourself onto the bed, rubbing your hands over your face repeatedly. Nibbles jumps into the basket beside you. The problem, along with every other problem with Johnny, is that ever since he figured out both of you would love to grab a great pair of tits, he keeps relentlessly encouraging you to do so. But you just fundamentally disagree with the whole ‘I love to fuck’ vibe. Because it’s stupid. He’s stupid.

You let your hands fall back onto the blanket, staring at the ceiling that slowly spins of its own volition, drunk brain resetting the movement every time your eyes shift. “If I have to choose between hooking up with one of your old groupies or the POV memory of watching you fuck Alt as the last sex I got to have before I die, I think I’d rather just fuckin’ die.”

“Wah wah, quit your crying, you know it was hot. If you’re not gonna find an output, just beat one out and get over it like every other dying single person.” 

You sit up and throw a pillow at him, but you’re so uncoordinated it misses by a mile. Not that it would have landed in the first place. “I can’t with you around, fucker!” you snarl. “Don’t you get it? I have zero privacy!” 

He laughs shortly, inclines his head in that horrible familiar amused way. “Serious? All you gotta do is ask. Lemme know when you’re done.” 

And then, with an electric hiss and pop, he disappears. 

“Johnny?” You sit up stupidly and look around the room as if double checking—for what? The hallucination man, who can only be seen in your rotting brain, crouching behind the bathroom door? You groan and throw yourself back down onto the bed, wishing this conversation never happened. 

But there’s something about the noisy ad reels looping on your projector, the radio transitioning to another song, the hum of the building around you, voices and traffic echoing up from the street level to the window. You feel very alone. It’s a little stifling, and very quiet by Night City standards—you swallow. This is, in fact, the opposite of what you wanted. 

You consider calling Panam since you’ve been gifted the freedom but realize it’s absurdly late and the idea of pissing her off is more than you can bear right now. You already can’t stand the memory of her pushing herself off your lap when you ruined the moment last time, the way she looked and moved away, every inch of her body screaming rejection. She was cool the next morning, but you probably won’t be cool about it for a while. 

Fuck. Fuck all that noise. You’re drunk and alone. You have better shit you can be doing. 

You shove your hand past your waistband and roll onto your stomach. 

You let it move aimlessly for a while, not really thinking about anything, just rubbing against the base of your palm while your fingers slide up and down, roam the joint of your inner thigh before finding yourself getting embarrassingly, maybe even eagerly wet. Which is surprising since you’re at least 40% angst and probably 20% Johnny by now... and you don’t even know what the percentage is that’s just V anymore, because every day it keeps shrinking. There’s conflicting levels of horniness going on here. So what the fuck?

You shove off impending doom to tease yourself, breathing heavier, rolling to one side to pull the loose shirt up, exposing your chest, free hand pinching and massaging to counter the rub of your palm, grinding against your clit. You’re circling yourself, dipping the tip of your middle finger just barely inside, going a little deeper each time. It’s weirdly great. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or just sexual frustration in general but—your body is just revved up, ready to go. 

Your fingers are so fucking wet, you’re so ready to put them inside you exactly where you need it, curl them against where you know you’ll feel it the most. You fumble to get comfortable, still uncoordinated, middle finger sinking in as far as you can, because you’re actually so sensitive it feels like it’s been way too long, you can’t even make it to the knuckle as you stifle a moan through your teeth, cheek pressing into the pillow. 

“Seriously? That’s your go-to pose?”

Johnny’s voice douses you like icy water, freezing you immediately. You roll your head over enough to see him standing there, arms crossed as he towers over you in the bed. You hastily pull your shirt down, immediately slide the hand out of your underwear—but somehow this even more obscene because now he can definitely see your fingers glistening. 

Your head twists and you sit up to glare daggers at him, fist clenching the wetness into your palm. 

“I’m gonna. Fuckin’. Kill you,” you tell him, with feeling, one hand shooting out towards the Make-Johnny-Disappear pills by the bed. 

But he’s already saying, “Hang on,” just as your fingertips brush the plastic and bats them away, apparently having full reflex advantage compared your currently questionable motor functions. You’re in that horrible limbo between extremely drunk and starting to be hungover and the bottle (thankfully still lidded) rattling across the floor dizzyingly reminds you of the first night you woke up with Johnny inside your head. Except this time, Nibbles is also pissed about all the sudden movement, and dashes across the room back to the safety of the laundry piles.

“Relax. Just didn’t think you’d actually start masturbating,” he’s smirking, the ghost of a laugh still on his lips, a level of sheer cocky amusement you haven’t seen (felt) since one of his distant memories that ended in some form of violence, and the eye contact just makes you feel more exposed, so you glare sideways out the window instead. “You really that pent up?” 

“I’m not the one who hasn’t fucked in over fifty years,” you grumble, the low, simmering heat fighting for attention still. You flip him off halfheartedly with your drying finger and try to stop tensing up, back against the wall among the remaining pillows. “You sure this isn’t all you? Seem like the type to throw a tantrum if you don’t get your rocks off on a schedule.”

He pauses to think, but the overconfident amusement doesn’t leave his face, hands on his hips. “I dunno,” he says. “Haven’t thought about it until now.” 

You groan, let your head fall back against the wall with a thunk, fully giving up on concepts like freedom and autotonomy or whatever. What’s one more crack to your skull anymore? Johnny crouches down on the balls of his feet at your bedside, one hand rubbing his chin. The shades have disappeared; he’s inspecting you. “D’you wanna keep going?” he asks seriously. If your face or your ears could get any warmer, they definitely just did. 

“If I say yes, will you go away?” 

“Even if I do, I’m pretty much still present. Sorry.” 

Your entire heart drops into your stomach. “Wait, so you were here the whole time—“

“Yeah,” he says. “Thought I’d make myself known before you showed me everything.” 

Your mouth opens, dumbfounded, and then snaps shut so you can slide past him, avoiding eye contact. You’re standing and striding quickly over to the bottles scattered across the coffee table in an attempt to outrun sheer mortification. A bottle of vodka gets uncorked and you throw yourself onto the couch, swallowing down enough to cough a little and wipe your face with the back of one hand, staring fixated at the TV. You exhale the burning through your nose, eyes watering, trying not to think about how your brain parasite knows firsthand how you like to get off now. 

"Really, does it have to be vodka? You know I hate that shit." Johnny, of course, walks over, avoids the expanse of cushions available, and makes himself quite at home right beside you, stretching both arms behind the frame of the couch, cold metal arm jostling your shoulders as it clacks arrogantly into place well within the boundaries of your personal space, framing you. And, because Johnny is incapable of sitting like a normal person, he also kicks his boots up onto the coffee table.

“Johnny,” you say, the warning in your voice. 

“What? Can’t sit here?” 

You take another swig and swallow noisily, ignoring him to focus intensely at the ads playing. 

“Fuck, V,” he says, finally annoyed, and puts the metal hand on the mouth of the bottle with a clank, forcefully lowering it away from your face. “This is so fuckin’ stupid. The first time I see you getting drunk on your own and it’s just to be a miserable piece of shit. So you’re pissed outta your mind and you wanna jack it. Sorry I have to be there. This crisis can’t be happening in front of a joy toy? A doll, even? Can’t be back at the fucking bar talking shop with the hot bartender?” 

You wrench the bottle out of his hands but begrudgingly put it back down on the table. 

“This concept might be strange for you, but most people don’t actually have to try and fuck everything in sight when they’re drunk and horny,” you snap.

“I swear, sometimes you make no goddamn sense. If you can and want to,” Johnny says, crossing his arms, “Don’t see a reason why not.” 

“Well y’know, it’s just a bit of a mood killer that I’m forced to bring the guy in my head that’s killing me into every private thing I do!” 

“This shit’s getting on my nerves, V. Every time I think we’re on the same page, you bring this up again. I swear we get nowhere.”

“You’re the one bringing yourself into my shit, asshole—“ 

“Have I barged into your intimate adventures, V? Did I include myself in your business when you played house with Night City's finest over family dinner, or when you tried to fuck the straight girl? What about when you let yourself get fucked by that corpo bitch and kept the—” 

Every inch of your skin starts overheating again. “Fuck you—“ 

“If you want to be miserable, fine,” Johnny grates, cutting you off. “But stop making me into your cockblock. Just go get yourself an output. Fuckin’ shame about Panam, though.” 

You huff once, trying to calm down. “Look. It’s not as easy for me as it is for you,” you admit, pressing a thumb against the increasing pounding in your skull, threatening a relic malfunction. 

“Yeah, real fun waking up after fifty years of soul prison just to spend every day watching your host be a miserable prude.” Johnny takes out a cigarette from thin air. 

“Y’know what I mean, you gonk, I’m allowed to be fuckin’ scared. I’m the one dying here. I'm the one without any privacy.” 

"Great news, V, you aren’t actually the only one. Been there. You'll get over it." 

You’re ready to concede, you put your palm to your forehead, glowering, unseeing, at the TV and its raucous adverts that are already seared into your brain. You feel yourself being warmed by the alcohol in that weary, final round way, reminiscent of being the only one still conscious at a party, vein in your temple throbbing. 

Begrudgingly you hang your head, sigh deeply to let the tension out, trying to be fair. “I get it’s frustrating. Must be pretty lame that I’m the only one who can see and hear you and everything. I’m not very fun by Silverhand standards or even V standards at this point.”

“Huh. Let me borrow your body again. I'll make sure we have some fun.”

The suggestion doesn’t faze you or feel like a threat this time, or maybe you’re just beyond caring anymore. “Sure, Johnny.” Your laugh is short and pessimistic. “Just be patient, it’ll probably be all yours soon anyway.”

“Not known for being patient. Guess it’ll be interesting to navigate the whole having a pussy thing for real, but I’m not worried.” He pauses, thoughtful, but that edge of amusement at your expense is still there. “Excited, actually.” 

Your face, even your neck heats up again, which cannot be a great sign. “Earlier,” you say cautiously, “Could you feel what I felt?”

Johnny scratches at his facial hair then crosses his arms, clearly choosing words carefully, or buying time to lie his ass off—you can’t tell which. “Only a little, and input's delayed, too. It’s mostly whichever’ve us is piloting your body that feels what your body feels. Not telepathy, you said it yourself.” 

“Huh. That’s kind of a relief.”

Johnny inclines his head at you, grin in his voice if not quite on his face. “Saw everything though.”

Mortification comes back full force. “Great.”

There’s a moment of silence where he's just dragging on the cigarette and tapping his foot against the table. You study him sideways out of the corner of your eye. He’s definitely feeling the alcohol in that patently Johnny way, he’s looser than usual, just oozing relaxed confidence, itching to pull the trigger on something, anything. But not as fucked up as you are. 

It’s strange, you’ve spent a lot of time worrying about where you end and he begins, and not very much time defining the actual boundaries between you to see how they’ve been crumbling. You have no clue what you share and what you don’t anymore. When control starts slipping in Johnny’s favor, your rapidly deteriorating brain makes it real enough to simulate touch. You do share the influence from chemicals, a vague influence of some emotions, and Johnny’s form is tethered to the relic in a way that doesn’t seem unlike the radius around the person recording in BD’s. And he can see everything you do. Saw everything, your brain repeats, stressed again. 

“D’you ever wonder,” you try, breaking the silence, licking your lips. “How all this works? Pretty sure the relics aren’t supposed to include this sensory shit. You ever curious ‘bout how much we can actually interact with each other?” 

His eyes snap to you with immediate interest, a little glazed, not unlike your own. But a fucking MILFGuard ad starts playing as you two stare each other down. The cartoonishly pornographic moans playing from the TV twist your question into the worst innuendo, and it's like he just knows, smells it in the air, the edge of his mouth curling into that smirk, looking you up and down as you swallow dryly, already sensing where he’s about to take this. 

“You wanna find out?” he says, eyebrows raised.

You snort half-heartedly. “God, you’re the worst.” 

“It’s probably just like a BD, anyway,” he muses, repeating your own assumption. “Sure you don’t wanna test it out a little? We could—“

“Nevermind. I get how it works enough,” you say flatly. “First time you slapped me around in here told me all I need to know, thanks.” 

“Yeah, turns out you _like_ being slapped around—“

“Not by you,” you assert, voice tight and mock-cheerful. "Not like that." 

But of course instead of backing off Johnny doubles down. “C’mon, V.” His voice drops lower. It’s a little disconcerting how immediately it works, even though you _know_ he’s just messing with you, and you blame it on five minutes ago when you were touching yourself, cursing internally. “There’s way better ways to test it. Two birds, one stone. I know you’re still horny.” 

You make the terrible mistake of making direct eye contact with him. You regret drinking, regret not taking more of the pills when you should have, all of it. Forget joytoys or jerking off. Johnny has never once indicated he wants anything other than to hijack your body, talk your ear off with his extreme opinions, and give unsolicited advice in the form of demands whenever he feels like it. But now he’s looking at you like he just discovered a shiny new toy. 

You probably should have known better—visually disappearing doesn’t mean Johnny stops feeling what you feel. If you’re horny, he's horny. And if you're the only person he can touch... you’re also the only one he can fuck.

So you don’t answer, frowning at him, testing the waters first. With unsteady, drunken focus, you reach one hand out to place it on his shoulder. The instant before you make contact, you can already feel warmth through the strange current of a soft cloud of static, the sensation of touch before you actually touch. A memory that isn't your own likens the feeling to touching the warm glass of a boxy old monitor, when screens were backed by tubes. 

But as fleeting as the thought, the strange haze disappears as soon as your hand rests on his skin. He feels like solid human flesh, even as the shimmering lines of light as unreal as your Kiroshi UI play across him. Indistinguishable. 

“There,” you say shakily. “Feels real. Happy, or d’you want more? Cause I got a fist that can—” 

Johnny takes your inch of permission and runs a mile. He wraps one hand around your forearm and, predictably rude, drags you closer as an answer. You make a noise and tumble over him, room spinning in overdrive thanks to those last dredges of drink. “Hang on,” you’re gasping. The hand that was on his shoulder is gripping for dear life now, head dropping below your shoulders as you try to regain your bearings. Crosseyed you see the dog tags hanging out of your shirt, swaying like a pendulum, Johnny’s own mirrored below, so close—

You're too dizzy. Your forehead crashes into the center of his chest and he grunts, flickering for a moment, the arm still stuck in his grip held awkwardly between you, positioned so the stupid fresh tattoo is tauntingly on display. 

“Huh. Might actually be too drunk for this?” he observes, leaning fully back against the couch, tugging you back upright. You groan and lift your head to look him in the eyes, closer than either of you’ve ever been, scanning every eyelash, every pore, as real as flesh, just a projection in your head. Johnny is looking at you with an equal amount of dubiousness. 

“Look, if I am, so are you,” you say uncertainly, not entirely sure if you’re ready to find out what “this” is, but also running your thumb along his shoulder because you can, following it under the strap of his stupid vest. 

“So you don’t wanna find out,” he concludes. You realize he’s actually hesitating. It makes a laugh verging on panicked bubble out of you. 

“Y’know, that’s kinda funny. You’re always checking to see if we’re good in some weird-ass way, aren’t you, Johnny? But you haven't got a clue.” You rub your thumb back and forth over the metal bit of his collarbone, buffing it. 

“Like I’m gonna actually push you when your head’s all up in fifteen places at once like this, V,” he grumbles, and it's a little defensive, like he's not entirely ready to admit he'd fuck you either, even though that's absolutely what is happening right now. “You’re gonna get all weird about it. You’re already being really fuckin’ weird.” 

“Listen,” you say very seriously, smacking him on the shoulder to punctuate the statement. “It’s not that I don’t wanna trust you, I just can’t. Especially not with other people. Especially not after that shit you pulled yesterday.” You opt to swing your knee over his legs instead of being crushed side by side, sinking your weight mercifully onto his thighs. 

“It’s just us, V,” he says lowly, annoyed. “We doing this little touch experiment or not? Getting mixed messages here.”

You shrug, noncommittal. “I dunno. Fuck it. Guess I don’t have to trust you that much to fool around.” 

“Good,” he says, impatient. But his tone changes. “Then how ‘bout I pick up where you left off?” 

You search his face for any hint that he’s still joking or messing with you. But he just looks back at you, unbothered, usual half-scowl in place. “Yeah?” you say. 

“Yeah,” he replies. 

His metal arm moves first, he slides it down and with absolutely no preamble rubs his fingers roughly over your clit through the damp underwear. You choke on a breath, sitting up sharply in reaction, and he takes the opportunity to shove the fabric aside and sink one cold hard finger where you’re still embarrassingly hot and wet. 

“Fuck!” you half yelp half gasp, forehead coming down hard on his shoulder, overwhelmed again, scratching against the vest. “That’s so fucking cold—why the fuck?! Slow down!” 

“It’ll warm up.” The bastard thrusts—it’s so deep and you’re clenching so fucking much because you weren’t ready, to the point of almost cramping around every joint in the prosthetic. You could barely go all the way in earlier and his fingers are so much longer, the metal is so hard—

“Relax, V,” he says tightly. “Or you’re gonna fuckin’ crush my hand.” 

“I won’t,” you grit out. “Your hand—this isn’t real. But you can—feel it?” The fact that your brain is convincing you to feel _any_ of this is too much to wrap your head around right now. Your breathing is so ragged but he’s not moving again yet, and he was right, the metal is quickly warming up to match how much you’re fucking burning up right now, feeling less like an intrusion and more like something fuckable. 

“Yeah,” he replies as you relax. “Nice first test.”

You lean back just enough to finally focus on his face, glaring. He’s looking pleased as hell, but something about the smug expression is strained, tenuously held together, the beginning of an uneven flush under his cheekbones betraying actual blatant want. 

It runs through you like a monowire. 

You let a little bit of your weight rest on his hand and make a noise as he slides the barest bit deeper. He’s feeling it, you can tell just from the way he inhales a little sharper too, and you need to talk, say anything to dispel this awareness, fixated on him, what it’s doing to you in combination with just one fucking metal finger. “H-How the fuck are we doing this—” 

“Dunno,” he grunts, “But if I‘d known you secretly wanted me, we could’ve tried this ages ago, fuck. Sometimes you’re hard as fuck to read, V.”

Arousal flips back to rage before he even finishes. You grip him by the vest angrily.

“Secretly _wanted_ you? Try again, Johnny,” you’re hissing, but it’s slightly less threatening since the movement makes you flex inadvertently around his finger, and you have to withhold another sound before continuing. Some other warm part of you scrambles in three directions, wanting to know when, when could you have tried it? When the hell did he think about doing this? He suspiciously had very little to say when you met up with Meredith at the No-Tell a few weeks prior until bringing it up tonight. Was it then? 

“Y-you would‘ve known, right? There’s no fuckin' way _you_ could’ve resisted giving me shit about it.” 

Johnny looks entirely unbothered, but his free hand grips you harder. “Uh-huh, chill. Just thought you mainly liked chicks and for some fuckin’ reason, cops, that’s all. Gonna move,” he says, then does, sliding the finger out and driving it back home. Hard. 

You moan stupidly loud and he just does it over and over. “Fuck,” you gasp. “I can’t believe this is what you’re useful for.”

"Yeah, yeah, why don't you make yourself useful and show me your tits?"

"Fuck you," you bite back, but start pulling the tank off anyway, tags jingling. Before it’s even over your head you feel him jerk forward and lick a stripe up the underside of your left tit, flicking the nipple with his tongue. 

You make a little noise in surprise and clench, legs sinking lower onto him. He curls the cybernetic finger, slides it out and adds another that also starts off colder than you would have liked, and you can't tell if it's a reward or punishment because your head is fucking spinning from how unbearably overstimulated everything he’s doing is making you. 

“Hey. Don’t forget about the experiment. That feel like my mouth?” he asks, breaking the horny reverie, and you don’t even have to look at him to hear how much of an asshole he is. But he also doesn’t stop sliding his fingers in and out of you, making you lose your train of thought as he curls them again and again and holy fuck. 

“Fuck, yes, yes, of course it does,” you gasp out. “Can you fuckin’ slow down?” 

“Sure,” he says, shrugging. Then pulls out completely. 

You begin protesting immediately. “Wait—”

“Just a sec,” he asserts. “Here.” He puts his hands to your hips, pushes them downwards in a suggestion, nudging your legs wider with his knee. 

You adjust and straddle his leg. Then, for lack of better options, you grind on the leather of his stupid pants. 

“Wasn't asking for a break,” you complain, but he shakes his head, finger hooking into the chain and flipping the dog tags over your shoulder, out of the way. Johnny presses his nose to your clavicle, nuzzling between your tits as he plays with them, beard tickling and scratching. You wrap your arms around his neck and keep grinding yourself against his thigh. You’re so wet it’s actually detrimental to the friction, frustrating you further. "Come _on_ , Johnny—" 

“Touch yourself then for a second, I’ve got business up here with these two,” he says into your chest, pinching your nipples as he says it. You shudder instead of moving. He reaches out with the metal hand and pulls your wrist off his shoulder, guiding it down your side, sliding past your abdomen to the joint between your legs and his thigh, nudging. You inhale sharply and adjust to run fingers through the wetness, pushing easily inside yourself, hand crushed flush up against his leg, but he doesn’t let go of your wrist. Instead, just as you’re really getting into fucking yourself, two fingers deep while he fondles you, Johnny interrupts _again_ to drag your arm away. 

You protest with angry half-words, two seconds away from starting a full blown argument about how he just keeps changing shit up the minute you get into a rhythm. But he just shakes his head, already replying. 

“Wanna taste,” he explains before you can actually speak, voice the lowest you’ve ever heard it, and tugs your own wet hand up toward your face. 

Telepathy not required, you instantly want what he wants. You open your mouth, give the tips of your fingers a suck, licking yourself off of them so he can taste it through your tongue. He groans deeply in his chest, the way he’s watching you do it is fucking scorching, and with your free hand you clasp his metal hand together with yours and suck both his and your fingers into your mouth at the same time, licking between them, the hard edges of each knuckle, eyes locked on his. The metal doesn’t taste bitter or acrid, it’s a strangely muted salty-sour that just makes your mouth water more—but you figure this is basically your own hallucination, so it could probably taste like fucking Chromanticore if you wanted it bad enough. 

Johnny pushes both of your fingers as deep as they’ll go in your mouth and your throat convulses just a little before you encourage it further. He thrusts them again, you run your tongue alongside the intrusion, and he groans deeply. 

“V, fuck.” He looks and sounds absolutely wrought out, you’ve never heard him like this. “ _Fuck_. No way you can just wander around the place naked in front of me anymore, gonna start takin’ it as an invitation.”

You groan in your throat around the fingers, letting them slide out from between your lips, rutting against his leg, flexing desperately around nothing. It takes concentrated effort to steady your voice enough to speak, short for breath, still gripping his hand. 

“How’s this for an invitation?” you pant. “Get the _fuck_ back inside me. I don’t care how—“

“That’s the last part of the experiment,” Johnny intones, instantly back on his bullshit, all mock seriousness. 

"Can you please shut up with the experiment thing—"

“Why, don't wanna test how well I fit inside you in a different way?”

You clench again, eyes snapping shut for a second. Every normal function left in your brain is screaming annoyance and the rest of you is just more turned on. 

“That a yes?” 

“Take this shit off.” You grab at the vest, ready to escalate.

“V, I wanna hear you say you want it—“

“How’s this for an answer?” You shove yourself off of him, staggering slightly, standing between his knees to pull the underwear off and toss it somewhere behind you. Johnny just watches, and when you blink, he’s half obscured by pixelation before suddenly sitting there shirtless, patting the couch cushion beside him to get you to sit. 

When you do he shoves you over onto your back without warning. You grunt as your head snaps back against the cushions a little too hard. 

“Jesus, I know being all rough and pushy is like your thing,” you complain, clutching the back of your head, ceiling spinning, “but can you chill? Brain’s already fragile—”

“Pushy,” he repeats. “Not even somethin’ hot like ‘dominant’. You’re calling me _pushy_.” 

“Dominant?” you echo back incredulously, propping up on one elbow. “Uh, yeah, sure. Takes way more than a little wrist grabbing and positions you saw in some XBD to make you a top. I’ve seen how you fuck—“

“And I’ve seen how you fuck, and you’re seriously easy to push around. Just like to complain the whole lead up—”

You sputter a protest. "Says the guy who could figure out a way to blame bad weather on fuckin' Arasaka—"

“You kidding? The amount of pollution they make messes with—"

"Johnny, this shit has never made me once want to keep you in my head, so it's sure as hell also doing the opposite of making me want to fuck you," you snap. 

"See? Complaining." Johnny kneels on the cushions, hooks his hands under your knees and drags you closer until your ass is snug against his leather crotch. Which is when you realize how fucking hard he is. 

He rolls his hips against you languidly until it feels better than arguing more would, all focus narrowed on the feeling of the outline of his cock in his pants, pressure unyielding against your clit. You wrap your legs around him, caging him in to do your own thrusting back the way you want it, and he returns the action by settling over you, braced on one arm, the other digging fingers into the curve of your ass, lifting it to make sure neither of you separate. The drunk part of you is already so sick of all the moving around that you just keep grinding against his pants in the exact way that gets you closer and closer, little by little. 

“You really gonna cum from this?” his voice grinds out, hips grind on you again. 

Your mouth is open, voice tearing between gasping and moaning. “Yeah, yeah I can, fuck, it’s like this shit feels twice as good, I don’t know—“

“Cause I can feel it too,” he says roughly. “Even just this feels fucking insane—“

“Wh... you said—“

“Look—thought I’d save you your dignity,” he admits, huffing on an exhale, clearly not wanting to have this conversation right now. “Guess I didn’t need to since it turns out you’re completely shameless and were already two seconds from begging me to fuck you—“

“Fat chance, you fuckin’ lying _asshole_ —“ 

You stop moving to glare at him, not intending to stop completely, but he also stops moving, lets your ass slide back down to the sofa, wiggling the silver hand that was previously supporting it tauntingly in your face. You try to hang on with your legs but it’s not the same. 

“That a challenge?” he asks. 

“Johnny.”

“What do you want me to do with this, huh, V?” The fingers keep wiggling. 

A strangled angry note escapes the back of your throat. “ _Johnny_ —“

“Yeah, keep saying it like that, you’re getting the idea.”

You groan in frustration, try to make it more pissed off than reveal how this is absolutely working in his favor, baiting you into further engaging with him instead of just _coming and getting it over with_. You let your head flop back for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, try to catch your breath. 

“You’re tellin' me—you watched me jack off without telling me I was also jackin’ you off, and now you want me to beg _you_? For sex?”

Johnny considers this, shrugs and reaches down and starts to undo his belt, unbutton his pants. Your eyes instantly follow his hands despite yourself, narrowed. “Somethin’ like that, yeah.” 

“Not doing it,” you tell him, then sit up, reaching forward, smacking his hands away. “Would rather find out if I can remove an engram’s clothing. Since we’re experimenting.” 

He raises his eyebrows, leaning back against cushions again, arm around the back of the couch, man spreads like crazy. The way he’s instantly relaxed, obnoxiously inviting you over with a sweeping gesture at his crotch makes you realize he wins either way. You crawl over anyway, put your hands on his knees, slide up the leather to reach for the zipper, and as you do it he just slouches further, getting more comfortable, adjusting a little so you can pull the pants down enough to actually get in them. But before you do you pause and just press your palm over the bulge of his erection, thumb curling to press into his inner thigh, glancing up at his face just in time to catch him groan through his nose. 

You pull the zipper down and barely have to pull the leather aside before his cock springs free. You’re not gonna describe it. You’re definitely not thinking about how you know he knows you’re remembering that time he proclaimed it impressive or whatever. All that matters is that it’s a dick and you really, _really_ want to put it in your mouth. 

Johnny groans again, head tilting back. 

“Stop eavesdropping,” you tell him, annoyed, feeling your skin warm up again, sliding off the couch to the floor on your knees between his legs. “Actually, new experiment. If I came first, it’d probably feel fuckin’ great for you, right?” 

“That even a question?” Johnny leans back, slouches even more to get his junk closer to your face. 

“So what happens if you come first?” you ask, and wrap your hand around the base of his dick, squeezing it. 

“Great,” he groans. “Should’ve known you’d find a way to take the best part of this shit outta the equation—“

“Guess you’re pretty ancient now, can’t go for more than one round? Last fifty years really age your balls that badly?” 

“Try ‘em out, we’ll see,” he says, gritting his teeth and thrusting against your palm. 

“Wait,” you start again, grinning, enjoying your own turn of drawing this out without giving him enough attention. “Hypothesis. Maybe if we do it enough, I’ll start really feeling what you feel, too.” 

“Echo chamber of cum,” Johnny says, barely listening, and slides his hand behind your neck, thumb brushing your ear near where the Relic rests in your skull, tugging you forward insistently. You rest your cheek against the leather of his thigh, smirk, and stroke just a little, avoiding the head. He thrusts, trying to catch the friction of your fingers himself, but you press firmly down so the edge of your hand is still pressed up against the dark hair at the base of his dick. 

Johnny apparently runs out of patience at this point, metal fingers digging into your scalp pleasantly. He takes his other hand and wraps it partially around yours, the rest around his cock, and just goes for it himself, pumping slow. You stare past his hands and glance up at his face and your eyes meet. The room isn't spinning so much now. A passing thought, almost in competition to how earlier you were ready to finish by just humping his pants, that Johnny is also absolutely fine with finishing on your face like this, enters your head. 

You shiver. Then you sit up straight and, taking the cue from how his fingers first slid into you, you just go for it, open your mouth and wrap your lips and tongue around his dick just as he thrusts into his hand, his fingers bumping into your lip-covered teeth before he quickly pulls that hand down over yours at the base and you both twist your wrists simultaneously in the exact same way to jerk him off properly.

Both of you also groan deeply at the same time. Johnny's is extended and wrought out as you both recognize whatever the hell that's happening in your shared brain is happening, then yours cut off by his dick sinking deeper into your mouth as he fucks it, just a little deeper every time. His hand on the back of your head is unyielding, and you don't care, you've possibly never been more ready to choke to death on a dick in your life, if given the option you'd rather go like this than however the fuck you're already going, so you press the base of your palm against your clit, pleasure sparking—

Johnny pulls out with a grunt like it's killing him instead. "Fuck, stop thinking about weird shit, just stop, V," he says, gripping your jaw, suddenly pissed. You suck in air, mouth still half open, inviting, but he shakes his head, the moody prick. "Can't get off when you're being all depressed and shit—“ 

"Huh, sorry," you reply plainly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, panting. Johnny looks at you with his brow furrowed, snatches your wrist to tug at you again this time in a general indication of 'up’, ruder than ever. 

"We're fucking now," he announces, apparently cutting to the chase. "C'mon. Wanna see if we can finish at the same time." You stagger to your feet, disoriented, look at him quizzically.

"At the same time? The holy grail of dick-in-pussy sex?" you ask, mock-surprised, amused. 

"Shut the fuck up, V, this is a compromise," he says, and pulls you so your knees hit the edge of the couch and you rest your legs on either side of his, hands back on his bare shoulders to keep from falling. There's a digital hum; the leather pants are finally gone. So much for your own aborted experiment. 

You’re beginning to realize Johnny’s preferred method of communication is through manhandling. His hands grip your hips. The obvious impatience just means you can't help but tease more. "Huh, not sure if I can cum at the same time if I have to look at you." 

"Then close your eyes, dickhead," Johnny says. 

You shrug and smirk at him. “You’re right, maybe I’ll survive. Just this once.” 

Johnny smirks right back. “You can just pretend it’s Panam givin’ you the strap,” he suggests, and you choke a little. It’s disorienting how close your skin is getting to possibly erupting into flames. 

You already know you’re not coming back from that reaction, so break eye contact to move on as fast as possible, reach down the length of both of your bodies to grab his dick again. Johnny huffs a laugh, but the exhale is a little shaky as you position to rest your weight on him again and grind yourself against his length, this time without any clothing in the way. 

“You gonna put it in or what?” he asks. 

“I dunno, are you?” you shoot back immediately. 

“Well, fuck, if you’re not gonna.” 

Johnny pushes your hips off him just enough to wedge his hand between your bodies around his dick, position it upwards, pressing the head against your slick entrance. You gasp an exhale loudly, the pressure enough to set off something stupid in your brain, the hyperawareness of pleasure that’s about to come. You spread your legs wider, bracketing his and sink down low enough to feel just the tip slip in easily, and it’s instantly so overwhelming, a sensory overload that you can’t even begin to disentangle from between the two of you. You have to stop there to pant, scrabble at Johnny’s neck and grip his hair desperately to keep from dropping your whole weight on him when it feels like your pussy or mostly your brain is nowhere near ready and never will be. 

Which is, of course, when Johnny thrusts up into you, just a little, and you press your forehead into the base of his neck, moaning like he did something completely mind-blowing, some genius tier sex shit instead of just… moving. A little. 

“V,” he says finally, voice as strained as you feel. “What the fuck is going on in your head right now?” 

“Dunno, who cares, probably melting,” you babble more than say, breathless. But in your head, you start thinking loudly, easier than speaking at this point, a repetitive staccato of, fuck, fuck, fuck, just fuck me, it doesn’t matter.

Johnny obliges, thrusting upwards into you again, sinking deep. Every part of you is shaking now, and you slide yourself the rest of the way down to the hilt, finally filled, already clenching around him. He groans, you can hear it through his skin where your ear is pressed against the scruff of his neck, and his own head comes to rest on your shoulder heavily, panting hot breath into your collarbone. One of his hands comes up to grip the back of your neck, both of you gripping each other like a mirror image. 

You lift yourself to feel the slide and drop back down as Johnny thrusts upwards, so fucking deliciously perfect and wet and just like that you're both rushing to set a pace that only goes out of sync when you feel your thighs cramping above your knees. Johnny keeps going and you brace yourself to take it, weaving your hands tightly into his hair, while he curls his palms pleasantly hard under your ass to assist with the movement while you're rubbing sweat from your brow to his neck, clenching as tightly as you can every time he pushes into you, knowing exactly how it feels to him, feeling him get just a little bit harder as you get a little bit wetter, tighter, closer. 

It's actually going to be laughably easy to finish at the same time, you're suddenly aware of this without really thinking it. You kick into action again, the need to just get off already overpowering partially hungover exhaustion, hips meeting his, grinding your pelvis against him as best you can to catch pressure on your clit, just enough to get _almost fucking there_. 

"Fuck, you're close," Johnny grits out, sounds like his teeth are clenched. 

" _You're_ close," you groan right back, flexing once around him so strongly you both know it's about to end. 

"Fuck," he says, and at the exact moment as you move to do the same, he scrambles to shove the metal arm between your bodies, both of your hands going for your clit at the same time, both getting in the way at the same time. 

The action and intention is enough, you can't even tell whose hand touches down first, all frantic pressure roughly rubbing against your clit straight into you going over the edge, and you throw your head back to cry out, hips rolling. Johnny's forehead hits your chest, free arm locking around your back as you hear him groan deeply, feel him finish in you, feel it happen to him too.

Then silence, other than both of your fucked up voices panting and the blood slowing down its rush in your ears. His dick keeps twitching, matching your aftershocks. And it's not getting softer.

You can't take it anymore, if you stay like this you're gonna try to do it again, and you are so goddamn tired at this point, every single second feels like walking ten steps closer to a very dangerous and suddenly extremely possible engram sex addiction. You sit up abruptly, grimace as he slides out, and throw yourself sideways on the couch, adjusting just enough so your ass doesn't fall off the edge, completely out of it. Johnny says nothing, stays right where he is, breathing rapid but slowing, and you think, vaguely, that if a bonus of this transaction is shutting him up, you're in a pretty good spot. Way too good of a spot, actually. 

"Huh," you say. "Fuck just _talking_ to engrams. Arasaka is missing out on an entire market if they're not puttin' 'fuckable celebrities' at the top of their selling points list for this Relic shit." 

Johnny grunts, disagreeing. "Wouldn't be the same. You think every desperate old politician downloadin' their souls on these shitty little chips are gonna be able to dick down like me?"

"I mean, it's mostly the mental link, not you, specifically," you clarify, draping one arm over your face. "Better than a BD. None of that prerecorded, edited shit." 

"Huh. Guess you do get to sit up in the ranks of groupies, now," Johnny says, and you can hear the grin in his voice. You flip him off blindly, then sit up, rubbing your face.

“Right. Dunno about that one. As far as I can tell, there's some major differences still. For starters, I’m not kissing the ground you walk on.”

“Yeah, like that's a prerequisite. You’re not the first angry idiot I’ve slept with, V,” he says, amused. A cigarette appears between his fingers and he takes a drag, exhaling a cloud that obscures his face briefly. “But sure, guess I’ve never fucked anyone like you. Not like this.”

You wave him off. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Silverhand," you say, tone the most relaxed it's maybe been in days, and drag yourself up on two shaky legs to go pee, then stalk over to the laundry pile, gently lift Nibbles aside to a different stack of clothes that are half spilled out of the closet, digging around to find the jacket you were wearing earlier while the cat meows a complaint. 

Jacket located, you pull out a cigarette from the pockets and head over to look out the window, lighting the thing while Johnny watches with interest, having stolen all the room on the couch, and takes a drag from his own at the exact same time as your first, groaning as it hits, really hits. 

"Fuckin' finally," he says, and you glance at him where he's sprawled across the couch, feet propped up on the backrest, taking up more space than a person should feel comfortable taking, especially while still totally naked. 

But you just smile to yourself and take another deep, deep drag, nicotine competing with the hangover that's quickly coming for you, beating heart turning into pounding headache. 

Then it all comes crashing down when you remember you have a job to do with Rogue in... you check the clock in your cyberdeck. The time displays across the corner of your eyes: it's 5 am. You have to be ready in the next few hours.

Groaning loudly, you rest your head in your hands and put the half-smoked cigarette out on the ashtray by your bedside, throw yourself backwards onto the bed, feet hanging off.

"Shit," Johnny says from the couch. "Nevermind bein' tired. You even gonna be able to vault over anything when it comes down to it? Legs're all fucked. I probably fucked the double jump right out of you—"

You groan again, more loudly just to cut him off, then flinch as, right on cue, the Relic begins its usual post-alcohol malfunction, the world's worst secondary hangover. But Johnny just yammers on.

"Pretty funny, you know, getting your own ass smashed before going to smash Smasher—" 

"Johnny," you interject, world shimmering and tinnitus ringing in your ears. "Please. Shut the fuck up."   


**Author's Note:**

> 1) look, i know i have a *gestures vaguely* amount of writing projects that i'm working on. but like, who doesn't! and sometimes, you just gotta get dicked down by some brain parasite pipe!  
> 2) there is more of this, to be updated later. but i make no promises in terms of time. so we'll just enjoy this for what it is: gross


End file.
